Kingdom: The Complete Series (29 page)

“
He's
fine, sir.”

“
You
realise the complications arising from the King's return? Your squad have to
prepare for the possibility of an attack against them.”

“
I
know sir. Undercover units are already embedded in the city. This is still an
Agency operation – we just have far better fail-safes this time around.”

“
Good
to hear it, Trespasser One. See to it that we don't have a repeat of Operation
Firefall.”

“
Yes,
sir.”

They both turn around
when Jamie and Donald erupt in cheers again. Mark has raised the metal man over
his head like a wrestler and turned to the crowd, roaring in triumph, before
throwing it to the ground with a crash.

Stacy holds her hand up
for a break, her armband flashing from green to orange. Gary boos them as they
leave the mat, which earns him a slap on the back of the head from Cathy –
Jamie has a chuckle at his expense.

“
Here,”
says Gary, “since Mark needs to drink to stay powered up, can we call him the
tenants-super man?”

Jamie slaps his thighs,
laughing harder.

“
What
do we call Stacy then?” asks Donald

“
Machine
Girl?”

“
That's
awful
,” says Cathy. “What about like, the Iron Lady.”

“
Like
Maggie Thatcher?” asks Jamie. “No chance.”

“
Beer-Man,”
says Donald.

“
For
Stacy?”

“
For
Mark, obviously.”

“
He
drinks whiskey, actually,” says Jamie. “What about you – you're a doctor, right
Don? What about like, Doctor Death.”

“
He
hasn't killed anybody,” says Cathy, shocked by this.

“
Can
Cathy just be like, 'Mist' or something cool?” asks Gary. “'Cause of that thing
she does with the invisibility and all.”

“
That's
actually not bad,” says Jamie. “You can be the Crimson Swagger.”

“
I
don't have a swagger -”

“
You
have
such
a swagger,” says Donald.

“
So
what, are we just getting a colour and a characteristic?” asks Gary. “That's
how they usually do it, right?”

“
Yeah,”
says Cathy. “Like the Green Whatever or the Red Something-or-other.”

“
Hold
on,” Jamie thinks. “Mark, what's your favourite colour?”

Mark is helping Stacy
up and looks over, shrugging as he gets his breath back.

“
Brown?”

“
Brown?
Who's favourite colour is brown, seriously?”

“
Ok,
like cream or something then.”

“
No,
no, brown's fine,” says Gary. “The Brown Mark suits him.”

“
The
Brown Mark it is,” Jamie announces, earning another middle-finger from Mark.
“Or just skidmark?”

Stacy applauds.

Command and Trespasser
share a look filled with unsaid thing, and Command raises his eyebrow before
turning and leaving.

Miles away, the frosty
air steals over a quiet Glasgow.

“
The
nights are coming in fast these days,” says Gregor, looking up at the darkening
skies. “At least it's clear.”

“
Ye
kin see all-a-tha' stars,” says the drunk sitting beside him on the steps,
tripping over his own words. He slurps cheap vodka from a blue plastic bag and
leans in to him. Gregor tries to hide his disgust. Grinning and showing his
three brown teeth, the spirits seep out from between his rubbery lips. “Awfa'
pretty,” he says.

“
Well,
no light pollution any more,” says Gregor. “It's getting cold, I'd best head in
for the night.”

The drunk leans back,
taking another swig. “Aye mate.”

Gregor stands,
adjusting his fingerless gloves and the old, piss-stained duffel coat he is
wearing. Fixing his wool hat, he climbs the steps and pushes the door open. The
heavy oak door creaks and lets him in, and he closes it behind him, twisting
the handle until it locks.

He tries to ignore the
stench. Walking down the corridor brings him to a wide open room with a roof
high above, like a cathedral. A spiral staircase runs around the interior like
the inner workings of a castle tower.

In the middle stands a
circular garden, bursting with colour even as winter sets in, the scent of the
flowers briefly taking away the stench of drink, weed and sweat. Noise from
above filters down like snow drops, and he catches bits and pieces. Somebody
slapping someone else about. A man begging somebody for a needle.

Sighing, Gregor takes
off his hat and scratches his head.

“
This
would never have happened under the King,” he mutters to himself. “Never.”

“
Whit
'ye sayin' there, big man?” asks a female figure from the shadows.

Gregor jumps, almost
going for the pistol hidden in his filthy coat. A young woman appears from the
darkness, shaking and huddling a tartan shawl around herself. Her hair is
matted in clumps, and she has open sores at the edge of her mouth. She looks
like a skeleton.

“
Nothing,”
says Gregor, clenching a fist in case she comes any closer. “Just looking for a
place to sleep tonight.”

“
Aw
aye,” she croons, and Gregor can't help but sneer as he sees the track-lines on
the veins of her forearm. Her voice sounds as though she is gargling
razorblades, and her eyes have had mascara badly smeared around them in an
effort to make her gaunt face more attractive. “Ye lookin' for some company?”

Gregor puts his hands
in his pockets, his hand closing around a set of brass knuckles.

“
No,”
he says.

“
Just
a fella without a house, eh? Loads-a them these days.”

“
Mhm,”
he says, looking around in case there are any witnesses.

“
Did
you used to work for him, too?”

Gregor stops. “Him?”

“
Aye.
The King.” He says nothing, and she narrows her eyes, nodding and pointing a
gnarled finger at him. “Aye, ye did. I can see it in yer eyes – yees have all
got that look. Psychos,” she whispers, shaking her head.

Gregor remains silent,
seconds away from knocking her out for peace and quiet.

“
Though
al say this,” she waves her finger and smacks her chapped lips. “Ye'd never
have got smack on the streets when he wis in charge. Least workin' girls were
looked efter.”

“
They
were.”

“
You'd
better no be here to kill emdby, mate. We've got a nice place here.”

“
I
just want a place to sleep.”

There's a pause, and she
looks around as though afraid somebody will hear her.

“
Is
he dead?”

“
The
King?”

“
Aye
– is he dead?”

Gregor shakes his head,
and she seems to shrink back into the darkness, shrivelling as though he'd
shone light on her.

“
Is
-” she's shaking now. “Is he coming back?”

Gregor nods.

“
Am
I in trouble? Is it me you're here for?”

He shakes his head.

“
I
just – we all thought he was dead. The boys that ran the sauna didny come in
for three days, we were starving, nobody telt us whit to do -”

“
Quiet,”
says Gregor. “In time, the King will make it clear what he has planned for
you.”

“
Ok,”
she says, relaxing. “Ye know it does get cold in here at night, ye sure ye
don't want some company -”

She comes in towards
Gregor, giving him an earnest smile. He holds out a hand to stop her, lowering
his voice.

“
Come
any closer and I'll shatter your jaw.”

She reels back,
screwing her face up.

“
Aye
aw'right mate.” She shuffles back into the shadows, mumbling, “you huv a nice
night too.” Gregor walks away, ignoring her whispered, “arsehole.”

He turns and heads for
the stairs, pulling an ancient mobile phone from his coat pocket. He flips it
open and dials the only number in it, and seconds later the voice at the other
end picks up.

“
Are
you in the Gardens?”

“
Yes.”

“
Do
you have everything that you need?”

Gregor double checks –
a plastic bottle filled with petrol, matches, pouches full of explosives,
wiring and a detonator; and of course, the deodorant-sized canister of hydrogen
sulfide.

“
Yes,”
he says. “I've got everything.”

“
Then
get comfortable,”
comes the voice of the King.
“The
rest of your team is in position.”

“
Is
the prison ready?”

“
It
will be when the times comes.”

“
How
long am I going to be waiting here? It's a dump – filled with squatters and
junkies.”

“
How
poetic. We have to wait until the last possible moment. Perhaps six hours
before the Arrival.”

“
I'll
keep the phone on. Just give the word.”

“
Thank
you – and Gregor?”

“
Sir?”

“
This
target, Mark. He's dangerous. Don't try to fight him, don't show-boat: hit him
with the gas, get the helmet, detonate the explosives, and leave. Are we
clear?”

“
Crystal,
sir.”

“
If
we can pull this off, we have the Agency beaten as far as the Arrival goes.
This will open the path to the creation of the Kingdom – and it all starts with
you, Gregor. Good luck.”

“
Likewise,
sir.”

Gregor hangs up, checks
that the explosives are still in his pocket, and pulls out a crudely drawn map
with X's marked where he has to place them.

Episode
6

The
Fall

The Agency elevator
comes to a stop and the doors hiss open, soaking them in the sharp chill of the
early morning air. The lift disgorges its passengers between a pair of shipping
containers covered in rust and moss, into a flat concrete wasteland populated
by dust, weeds and patchy ice, with an empty industrial shed in one corner and
high barbed wire fences running around it.

In the midst of the
barren block sits a silent helicopter, the large transport model that they're
used to. The Trespasser, dressed for duty in his overalls and mask, stands by
it with his hands clasped behind his back. The crowd walk towards him, the
squad accompanied by Chloe and Mark's mother.

“
Come
on squad,” he shouts. “The fire is coming. Arrival is in eight hours, we have
to get moving.”

“
Shouldn't
we be wearing our masks?” asks Jamie. “What about satellites seeing our faces
or something?”

They are all in plain
clothes, just civilians for the time being.

“
We're
safe here, Jamie, trust me,” says the Trespasser, despite his own face being
hidden by his head-wear. “Your overalls and armour are waiting for you in
Glasgow – it's all been taken care of.”

“
Hello
Tony,” says Chloe, giving him a familiar wave and a playful smile.

He nods his head.
“Chloe.” He regards the rest of them. “Everybody say any goodbyes you want to
say, and get on the chopper.”

“
Mark,”
Stacy shouts from behind them. Mark turns around to see her dragging Rob across
the ground, his metal form scraping on the concrete. “Can you help me out
here?”

“
Stacy,”
the Trespasser interjects before Mark can agree. “You can't take Rob. He's too
heavy.”

“
But
he's useful -”

“
You
can't carry him on an operation, Stacy. Leave him here, I'll have somebody pick
him up.”

She huffs, and drops
him to the ground with a hollow clang and heads for the chopper. “Fine.”

“
Engineering
are working on a lighter, portable model for you. Next time, ok?”

“
I
said fine, god.”

She barges past Donald
and Gary.

“
See,”
Gary is explaining to the older man, “if I drop the 'DJ' part of my DJ name, I
could use that.”

“
So
you'd just be 'Void'?” asks Donald.

“
Aye,
that's a great super-hero name.”

Cathy pats him on the
back as she walks by. “We're not superheroes, sweetie,” she says with a
condescending smile, walking onto the chopper along with Stacy.

“
She's
right, superheroes don't use helicopters,” says Gary. “How come we're not in,
like – I dunno, the Agency-Mobile or something.”

“
Helicopters
are
the Agency's primary method of insertion, Gary,” says the
Trespasser. “It's either that or high-altitude-low-open drops from a Hercules
aircraft. Would you prefer that?”

Mark shouts a reply
before Gary can answer. “I could do that?”

“
We
don't know if a parachute would work for you, Mark,” the Trespasser says. “Your
weight fluctuates with your power -”

“
Ha!”
shouts Jamie, who is mid-embrace with Chloe. “Fatty.”

“
I
mean his density,” says the Trespasser, sighing at his own mistake. 

“
Who
says I'd even need a parachute?” asks Mark.

“
Me,”
his mother says, patting his arm.  “Now have you got enough... you know.”

“
I
have a litre and a half of single malt in here.” Mark taps the silver flask on
his leather belt, hanging off his jeans like a growth. “I'll be fine.”

“
Just
don't forget to drink every half hour or so -”

“
It's
not chronic diabetes, mum,” he groans, “I'll be fine.”

“
Then
good luck,” she gives him a warm hug, only coming up to his chest. “Do your
best, and stay safe, ok?”

“
I
will. Love you mum.”

She fixes his overalls,
flattening some creases as though it was his first day of school. “Love you
too, son.”

Meanwhile, Chloe and
Jamie share a shy kiss.

“
I
don't want you to go,” she mumbles as they part.

“
I
know,” he says. “Me neither, but this is important.”

She nods. “Don't die.”

“
I'll
try,” he laughs.

“
Don't
go bringing down any criminal warlords, either,” she says. “I'm not there to
watch your back this time.”

He kisses her forehead,
squeezing her hips as he does. “I'll see you tomorrow. Wish me luck.”

“
Good
luck,” she whispers, giving him a last peck before leaving him on the landing
pad.

Chloe meets Mark's
mother halfway back to the elevator and they link arms like old friends. She
gives Jamie one last look over her shoulders, leaving him with an image of
those big bright eyes before she steps into the elevator, vanishing from view.

“
Your
girlfriend looks like an actress,” says Gary as they all head for the ramp. “I
can't place which one, but she does.”

“
I'll
take that as a compliment, Gary.”

“
At
least you've got somebody here with you,” says Donald as they climb into the
helicopter and head for their seats. “I haven't spoken to a single person
asides you lot since this all started.”

“
Yeah,
I've got fans waiting on my next remix,” says Gary. “I do like, one every month
with the top forty from the charts. It's been two months: nothing. There goes
my career.”

“
Gary,
making seven quid a month off a few thousand video-views isn't a career.”

“
And
how much money does playing the cello net you, Donald?”

“
I
played a gig for charity and made over a hundred pounds once. Besides, I'm a
doctor, not a cellist.”

Gary scowls. “It's not
even a real instrument, it sounds like a biscuit or something.”

“
Cello's
are beautiful instruments,” says Donald, sighing. “At least I can play an
instrument as opposed to – well, what is your first instrument, Gary? A
laptop?”

“
Get
with the times, Don.”

“
Get
seated,” says the Trespasser as they fasten their harnesses. The ramp begins to
close over, sealing them in the red-tinged darkness with one another. “I want
to know that you all understand the mission and the orders.”

The helicopter's
engines rumble awake, shaking them to their bones.

“
Hands
up first team,” the Trespasser shouts. Mark and Cathy raise their hands.
“Second team?” Jamie and Stacy raise theirs. “Third?” Gary and Donald lift
their hands. “Good. You'll be dropped at various places in your pairs where
your team leader will meet you in plain clothes. They will drive you back to
the safe houses around Glasgow where you will get ready, go over the plans, and
wait. Follow your team leaders' orders: those men and women are Trespassers
like me, so show some respect.”

The helicopter lifts
into the air, and Jamie takes a deep breath to dispel his nerves and the
tightness in his chest. The clammy air of the helicopter's interior is making
him itch.

“
Your
orders are to follow
their
orders. You will hang back unless ordered
otherwise. You will not intervene in
any
interaction between the
Trespassers and those hit by the fire, unless ordered otherwise. You are there
only as a precaution, do you understand?”

They all nod.

“
Do
you understand?” he presses, shouting now.

They chant in chorus.
“Yes, Trespasser One.”

“
Should
you need to defend yourself or others to prevent loss of life, you will do so
with the efficiency and speed that I expect of any squad under my command.
Don't hesitate: if you're going to use your powers to neutralise a threat, do
it. I've chosen the teams so that one person per couple is capable of taking
down a hostile. You'll also be wearing the armbands: if you become a threat,
your squad leaders are authorised to neutralise you. Don't become a threat.”

He looks them up and
down, nodding to himself.

“
I
know this sounds frightening, but you'll be fine. Remember your training, watch
your mates' backs, and maintain contact when the fire starts falling. We'll
pull through this just fine. Maybe in a few days, the facility will be a little
more crowded.” He looks straight at Mark and Jamie. “Then we can start focusing
on more important things.” He looks at his watch. “Seven hours and forty five
minutes. Then we meet our new, super-powered friends.”

The Trespasser says
nothing more, leaving them to their thoughts in the crashing noise-haze, not
one of them looking up from the floor. The tension in the cargo-bay – the fear
and the anxiety – is so intense that it almost drowns out the boom of the
chopper's blades.

Sitting on the stairs
of the Gardens, staring into space with his mind elsewhere, Gregor feels the
phone buzz in his pocket. He checks his watch before answering it:

Six hours till arrival.

He brings the phone to
his ear. “Yes?”

The voice of the King
comes through the other end.
“It is time, Gregor.”

“
As
you wish, sir,” he says. “Are the firemen in place?”

“
Your
men confirmed that they were ready ten minutes ago.”

“
And
the prison?”

“
Waiting
on my command, then we take control.”

“
Perfect,”
says Gregor, and stands up, stretching and cracking the stiffness out of his
bones.

The Gardens have fallen
silent, as if they know what he is planning. The addicts and the whores are
asleep, he thinks to himself. Burning this place to the ground is doing the
city a service. Doing it with them still in it – that's a civic duty, he has
decided; and Gregor is a man who takes duty very seriously.

He unzips his coat and
produces an empty plastic bottle filled with a viscous liquid the colour of
cheap cola. Descending the stairs as though he owns the place, he lifts a set
of matches out of his other pocket and slides them open.

Standing at the base of
the Gardens, where the building's namesake lies in a tangled but beautiful heap
of blooming colour, he upends the bottle of petrol and shakes it over the plants.
They wilt and shy away from him, hanging their blue and green heads as though
ashamed, awaiting their execution.

Gregor enjoys a faint
smile as the smell of the flowers fades to nothing, overpowered by the
industrial reek of the fuel. He strikes a match, grins like a contented child
on Christmas morning, and tosses the tiny ball of flame into the flowers.

With a rush of heat and
wind the garden bursts into flame, the beautiful colours fading to brown, then
black, then ashen grey as the blazing orange-red overtakes them.

Gregor throws the rest
of the matches onto the fire and climbs the stairs as it begins to spread to
the shrubs and small trees at the centre. It reaches outwards with flickering
fingers, touching the wooden banisters and cracking the concrete. Black smoke
forms a pillar rising up the middle of the stairs. Gregor climbs higher still,
until he can longer feel the searing heat from below.

He sits again,
shivering with anticipation. Beneath his coat he grips the detonator for the
array of explosives placed throughout the building. In his other hand, hidden
inside his pocket, he holds his silenced pistol.

Breathing in the fumes
like a drug, he savours the heady smell of the petrol as it blazes away. In
that moment, Gregor is as much an addict as the needle-marked waifs asleep in
the rooms above him.

He sits, enjoying the
peace as the world burns below him.

Like a gargoyle perched
above the ruinous gates, Gregor waits in solitude, completely at home in hell.

Night falls across
Glasgow, whilst Mark watches from the window of the safe-house.

“
Did
they deliberately put us high up, do you think?” asks Mark.

Behind him, sitting on
a cheap bed in her black overalls, face-mask perched above her head like a
welder, Cathy shrugs. “Probably so we get a good view of where the fire lands.”

Walking in from the
kitchen, a middle-aged woman in Trespasser overalls nods as she chews on an
energy bar.